“Yes—kind of like the greenish oxidation that occurs on copper. In the case of stone, moisture, sedimentary drip and airborne material builds up naturally over time to form a residue.”
“And the patina’s organic composition would indicate the type of environment where the ossuary would have been found?”
“Precisely.” He put on his reading glasses, peered down at a notepad and read from a list of notations. “Last night, I did some research about ossuaries and it seems that the practice of using them occurred mainly in Jerusalem during the first century BC, and didn’t last very long—only a century or two.” He glanced up at her. “Therefore, I’d expect that this limestone, like the James ossuary, was quarried during that period somewhere in Israel.” “Right, the patina’s mineral content should then be consistent with geological elements in that region,” she said. “But wait a second, Giovanni. Assuming this ossuary falls into that category, that would mean this is about two thousand years old.”
“Correct. And seeing as crucifixion was commonly practiced during that period, it appears that we’re on track.”
Hennesey peered closely at the patina. “So if the stone was tampered with, wouldn’t the patina be disrupted?”
“Correct again,” Bersei smiled.
“Is there any way to date the stone?”
He considered this for a second. “It’s possible,” he admitted, “but not very useful.”
“Why not?”
“We’re not really concerned with when the limestone was formed. The stone itself will be millions of years old. We’d be much more interested in when it was quarried. The patina and inscriptions are probably our best gauges determining its age.”
“Aha.” Charlotte pointed to the fused symbol of the dolphin and trident. “Think we’ll be able to determine what that means?”
“I’m fairly certain it’s a pagan symbol,” Bersei continued. “It’s funny, I know I’ve seen this somewhere before. First, let’s figure out if this patina’s legitimate.”
“While you finish analyzing the ossuary, I’ll work on preparing a bone sample for carbon dating.” She motioned across the room to the skeleton.
“Sounds good. By the way,” Bersei reached for his notepad and jotted something down. “Here’s the name and number of my contact at an AMS lab here in Rome.” He tore off a sheet. “Tell him I referred you. Say we’re doing work for the Vatican and need immediate results. That should get his attention. And request that he call back with the results straight away. The dating certificate can be sent later.”
Hennesey read it. “Antonio Ciardini?”
“Pronounced Char-dini. Old friend of mine, plus he owes me a favor.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t worry, his English is pretty fluent.” Bersei glanced at his watch: a quarter after one. “Before you do that, how about taking a lunch break?”
“I’d love to. I’m starving.”
“The tuna sandwich didn’t appeal to you?”
“Not my idea of Italian cuisine.”
24
******
Jerusalem
Graham Barton turned off Souk El-Dabbagha in the Christian Quarter and stopped briefly to admire the magnificent facade built by twelfthcentury Crusaders that masked the original crumbling edifice of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
Christian pilgrims flocked to Jerusalem to retrace Christ’s footsteps along the fourteen “stations” from flagellation to crucifixion—the “Way of Sorrows,” better known as the “Stations of the Cross.” The journey would begin at a Franciscan Monastery on the Via Dolorosa, just beneath Temple Mount’s northern wall—the site where many Christians maintained that Christ had taken up the cross after being scourged and crowned with thorns. Stations ten through fourteen—where Christ was stripped, nailed to the cross, died, and was taken from the cross —were commemorated in this church.
After all that had happened in Jerusalem over the past few days, Barton wasn’t surprised that there weren’t many tourists here today. He made his way into the main entrance.
Beneath the church’s massive rotunda high above two tiers of circular Roman colonnades, Barton walked a circle around a small mausoleum embellished with elaborate gold ornamentation. Inside this small structure was the most sacred site in the church—a marble slab that covered the rock where Christ had been laid out for burial.
“Graham?” a warm voice called out. “Is that you?”
Barton turned to face a corpulent old priest with a long white beard, dressed in the ceremonial garb of the Greek Orthodox Church: a flowing black soutane and a substantial black pipe hat.
“Father Demetrios.” The archaeologist smiled.
The priest clasped Barton with both his pudgy hands, fingers like sausages, and pulled him slightly closer. “You look good, my friend. So what brings you back to Jerusalem?” He spoke with a heavy Greek accent.
It had been almost a year and a half since Barton first met the priest to arrange for an exhibit of some of the Sepulchre’s Crusader-era crucifixes and relics in the Museum of London. Father Demetrios had graciously loaned the items to the museum for a three-month period, in exchange for a generous donation.
“Actually, I was hoping you’d be able to help me translate an old document.”
“Of course,” the priest cheerily replied. “Anything for you. Come, walk with me.”
Strolling beside Father Demetrios, he eyed the numerous clerics milling about the space. The Greek clergy was compelled by a long-standing Ottoman decree to share this space with the church’s other resident sects— Roman Catholics, Ethiopians, Syrians, Armenians, and Copts—and throughout the Sepulchre, each had erected their own elaborate chapels. It was a haphazard arrangement both physically and spiritually, Barton thought. From
